Too Late
by Rainstorm Amaya Arianrhod
Summary: Terciel was never a punctual boy, and he suffered for it. How Sabriel came to be motherless.


**A/N:** Ahhh, a nice simple oneshot. Such a joy after all those bloody long chapters and constant drabbles. _And no, Sabriel's father's name is not Emeritus. When Mogget said Abhorsen Emeritus he meant something like 'previous Abhorsen'._ **_Please read and review!_**

**Disclaimer:** Nothing really belongs to me, possibly excepting Ilael and Tillira. There are even bits of dialogue here from Sabriel.

* * *

Terciel was never a punctual boy.

_Late again!_ Ilael would snap, or _Terciel! Hurry up! _and her nephew, the Abhorsen-in-waiting, would apologise and do as she said, quickly and correctly, and everyone present would develop a highly unfavourable opinion of the acerbic, dark-haired, sharp-faced Abhorsen, always snapping at her nephew. Terciel would try to improve; he worked studiously at whatever his aunt set him to do, and occasionally managed to anticipate her orders. If truth be told, and Terciel was a very truthful boy, his aunt had every reason to tell him off; he somehow never managed to look at a clock till it was too late, and as Ilael said with her customary sharpness, an Abhorsen couldn't _always_ turn up in the nick of time.

And Terciel agreed, and he tried, but still he kept on being almost too late, only just in time to plug the hole in the wards, to save the hostage, to back up Ilael. He was sorry, and Ilael couldn't fault his work as a Charter Mage or as Abhorsen. He was kind and honest, steadfast and charming enough; perhaps what annoyed her was how simply he saw things, sometimes, so different from her sideways and wry view of the world. It was not always easy to be a female Abhorsen, but people accorded Terciel automatic respect, and although she resented it –being a fair woman- Ilael knew she could not blame him for this, but damn it, being late was his fault and she was going to call him out on it. So she did.

_Late again!_ sounded in Terciel's ears now, but the source was not Ilael's voice; his memory supplied the call. The flaming remnants of the wards that had been so well-smashed flickered about him as he sprinted, sword drawn, towards where his aunt should be, and she was there, fighting- outmatched by the Dead thing, which had been feeding on whatever it could find, Belisaere citizen or Royal Guard, and slipping away to a secret hidden place the Abhorsen and Abhorsen-in-waiting had not been able to find. It was now very strong, strong enough to break the wards and try and flee into the deserted depths of the Palace when they cornered it, and Terciel felt bitter horror burst in his mind as it knocked Ilael to the ground, lifting her off her feet. The Abhorsen's head struck a rock, and she didn't move again; Terciel yelled a challenge at the thing, anything to distract it from his aunt, for once out of control, and threw a Charter spell at it which took flaming root in its skin.

It roared, and, its attention diverted from Ilael, now considered Terciel. "Come on," Terciel muttered, "come on," and threw another Charter spell. The weaker he could make it, the better chance he had with Saraneth.

The Charter spell burst flaming against the Dead creature again, and it roared once more and charged at him. Terciel sliced at it, the spelled sword connecting and chipping away flesh from the creature's rotting vessel. It made a swipe- he ducked under, and thrust the sword into the thing's midriff; gold fire sparkled, and he pulled it away, retreating backwards and readying Saraneth. He began to swing the bell. Its deep tones rang out, and Terciel focussed on the creature –_obey me!_- until it was caught. Terciel put Saraneth away, and drew Kibeth instead; he took a deep breath to calm his racing heart, and rang Kibeth in a quick figure of eight. The creature howled, but took one step, then another, and a black molten shadow drained from the body, which crumpled. The shadow vanished; Terciel closed his eyes, still ringing the bell, and a film of frost formed on him as he pursued the shadow into Death.

He had seen the revenant safely past the Fifth Gate before he hurriedly returned to attend to his aunt. She had come round, and managed to sit up, and he found her sitting where 

she had fallen, watching him with a lopsided smile. Her skin was even paler than usual; normally even Abhorsens had a faint colour in their cheeks at least. "That was well done, Terciel," Ilael told him. "Very well done indeed." And from her, it meant more than it would have done from his softly-spoken mother. The two sisters, Terciel thought –not for the first time- were about as like as sea and land.

Then he noticed something dark and sticky-looking in her black hair. "Aunt Ilael!" He knelt beside her, and gently tipped her head so that he could see it properly; she offered no resistance. Terciel's eyes widened. Blood.

"You're hurt," he said. A statement of fact, not a question.

The wry smile grew on Ilael's face. "I'm dying."

Only now did Terciel hear the weakness in her voice, and see the pain from the head-wound in her eyes. "What? No!" Desperately, he summoned healing marks, but Ilael struck his hand aside with one of hers. She had surprising strength for a dying woman. He always remembered that. Her strength.

"_No_, Terciel. It's too late. Everyone and everything has a time to die," and she repeated the words of an Abhorsen's hardest lesson as she had many times before, but Terciel heard nothing after 'too late'.

"Too late... I was late again. No, I can still save you! It's not too late!"

"Terciel." She took the hand she had pushed away, now hanging limp, and leant her head against Terciel's shoulder. "Forget about me," she said, her voice dwindling to a whisper, and her eyes closing. "You're Abhorsen now..." And, her last words little more than a murmur on the air, she died.

Terciel, Abhorsen, held his aunt's body and cried for a long time.

That had been many years ago now, and Terciel was older, stronger, wiser, but still always late. He killed the Dead Hand in front of him, and ran on through the wood.

There had been happy years since then. Less than a year after Ilael's death, when he still lacked confidence, he had met Tillira, fighting Dead Hands with her command near the Palace. She had ignored a wound, ignored him, in order to keep going, to stay on her feet and in command; she was brave, an unusually good Charter Mage, and pretty, with her bright brown eyes and soft dark brown hair. She had fascinated him from the moment he noticed her, and on further acquaintance he'd found her quick-witted and affectionate. He'd fallen in love with her, and she with him, though he'd no idea what she'd seen in him.

They'd had a long time together, and they'd thought that there would be many more months. He had been so lucky, he knew, to find a capable woman who could look after herself (though the thought of Tillira having to fight for her life terrified him). She wouldn't stay with his dwindling family or in Abhorsen's House alone; she came with him, and fought beside him with spell and sword- but for a long time they'd had no children. He knew she wanted a child; he wanted a child too, a son to love and teach. They had both been delighted when she realised she was pregnant. And then as enemies of Abhorsen discovered that the Abhorsen's heir was going to be born soon, they had begun to attack. Tillira and Terciel had fought them off, they had even managed to joke about it ("Everyone I've ever tried to kill coming out of the woodwork!" Terciel had laughed) but as Tillira became less able to fight, more vulnerable, the attacks became more serious. This one had come while they travelled back to the House, and Terciel had told Tillira to run _now_, before the Hands charged, and he would kill them and come to find her. She had had a sword when she left, but Shiners knew if she still had it- if she was still alive.

No. He knew that much, Terciel thought. She lived yet, or his knowledge of Death would have told him. He ran on, on, searching desperately for her, calling her name _Tillira! Lira! Lira!_ and all the time fearing that he would be too late, too late and cursing himself.

The flame that was Tillira's life in his mind flickered, and he increased his pace. He could see a fire in the distance, out in the open, and the shapes of caravans- travellers, then, or perhaps merchants, well-defended against the Dead. Tillira would have fled there and pleaded safety. By the looks of things, they had given it to her. Terciel felt relief, a short-lived relief, because he could now feel Tillira's strength leaving her even from here. He had asked too much of her, he always had done, and now he was going to be too late again.

The little flame flickered once more and died.

Terciel stumbled to a stop, out of the firelight's range or the sentries' vision, and stood there, a tall pale-faced figure wearing blue turned black by the night. _Tillira? Lira, no, please, no..._

But the child lived. _Cassiel_, Terciel thought, the boy's name Tillira had liked, and then added, _or Sabriel_. He didn't know, yet. Tillira might be dead, but some part of her, something beyond death, would be watching, and she would never forgive him if he gave up on their child now.

He strode into the makeshift camp, bypassing the sentries. "Peace!" he ordered as he grasped the mage's wrist. "I wish you no harm." He kept his eyes away from Tillira's face, the pain that must have been etched into her face smoothed by Death's calm. _Not now- not now. I'll face it later... _

"I am called Abhorsen," he said, watching the words' effect on his listeners. "And there will be a baptism tonight."

The Charter mage glanced at the baby the travellers' midwife held, and Abhorsen followed his gaze. _A girl_, he thought. _Sabriel, then- I will do as you wished, Lira._

"The child is dead, Abhorsen," the man told him reluctantly. "We are travellers, our life lived under the sky, and it is often harsh. We know death, lord."

_He _will _do as I say_, Terciel thought, and smiled. "Not as I do. And I say the child is not yet dead."

The man could not meet his eyes. The travellers' leader stirred, and said with authority: "So. It is easily done. Sign the child, Arrenil. We will make a new camp at Leovi's Ford. Join us when you are finished here."

And the mage nodded, and triumph burst in Terciel's heart. _It is not over yet_, he cautioned himself, and readied himself to enter Death. _She will not have gone past the first gate..._

He was too late for Ilael, and too late for Tillira. He would not be too late for Sabriel.


End file.
